


Dissociate

by viewingcutscene



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Multi, Threesome - F/M/M, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 13:36:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4307073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viewingcutscene/pseuds/viewingcutscene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alana realizes she doesn't have relationships so much as coping mechanisms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dissociate

Rain streaks the windshield of the taxi, blurring the outside world into a comfortable fuzz, unreality that easy to ignore. Alana sits statue-still, hands in her lap. Dissocation can range from mild to severe, a mind’s attempts at mastering stress and trauma. Alcohol and drugs can enhance dissociative states. A psychologist analysing aspects of dissociation as a means to distance herself from her current situation is a form of dissociation - and a laughable character quirk. Her insides clench as Will lifts his hand, but he only adjusts his glasses. The car smells like damp wool and her perfume.

When the cab stops in front of the house, she hesitates when both Will and Hannibal step out of the car to let her out. She takes Hannibal’s hand to steady herself, seeing the two men stare each other down over the top of the cab. Will breaks off first, leaning through the front window to pay the driver. Had it been raining this hard when they’d left the restaurant, all three of them far too drunk for their own good? Why hadn’t she accepted Jack’s offer of a ride? Stupid, stupid. A man like Hannibal would never allow himself to appear anything but perfectly composed; Alana suspected he could wield a knife in the kitchen as easily as breathing, drunk or sober. Will was… Will. He trembled slightly, but from the chill or the drink, she couldn’t say. From the cold place where she floated above herself, she could see her drunkenness in flushed skin, a rapid heartbeat, the too-careful way she placed her feet. Her honour guard marches her into Hannibal’s house, though if Alana fancies herself any student in human nature at all, honour is not on anyone’s mind tonight, and she stifles a hysterical laugh. No one will admit to moving her, like a ouija board planchette, but she finds herself moving towards ‘her’ room in Hannibal’s house, where she’s stayed - but not necessarily slept - before.

The en-suite bathroom is massive but not gaudy in its size. Everything is tasteful, meticulous. The enormous tub spotless. The mirrors placed just so, not a water spot daring to mar their surfaces. It’s for exactly this reason Alana can see both Will behind her, and Hannibal leaning against the door frame when she leans over the sink basin to wash. Her hair is still wet from the rain, dangling like ropes and obscuring her face. She doesn’t think Will can see her watch them, but she wouldn’t put anything past Hannibal. Even with his eyes closed, he could find Will in a room, like a snake following a mouse’s heartbeat. The quick glances between the two men are enough to make her feel as though she’s caught in the moment before the flash-point in a house fire. Will’s face is open, and slightly pitying - with a flash of amused irritation, she realizes it’s probably quite similar to how she would look at him when he was losing himself.

When she can’t stand the look in his eyes anymore, she pushes open the door leading into the guest room. Alana doesn’t know what Hannibal’s design was for the evening - if he had one - but the duvet is folded back at one side, ready for her to climb in and slide down into sleep, wrapped cosily in feather down and drunken stupor.

Instead she flops facedown onto the bed at an angle, aware enough to keep her wet heels away from the covers and to turn her head to the side. The damp hair feels good against her flushed face, and she closes her eyes. Perhaps sleep after all, and what dreams may come. Let Hannibal and Will snarl it out, like dogs over a bone, if she could sleep through the whole thing.

A dry, warm touch on her shoulder makes her start. Will, his hands firm on her bare skin, rolls her over and eases her onto his lap, cradling her against his chest. His hair is still curly and damp from the humidity, but his shirt is dry. Does he keep clothes here, then? Did he borrow something from Hannibal’s closet? He’s warm, and dry, and humming a little, not entirely sober after all, and Alana finds she doesn’t care about the particulars of Will’s wardrobe.

Hannibal kneels at her feet. The sleeves of his elegantly tailored shirt are rolled up, displaying forearms of a man who takes his training in combat seriously. For all his strength, his touch is gentle. He has never, not once in their time together, abused his strength. Instead, Hannibal seems to delight in the subtle touches of patience and grace - being able to slice a delicate fish into paper-thin pieces, or to play an instrument made of air. He runs his long forefinger under the arch of her foot, causing a shudder to run straight up her spine, and ring like a bell in her head, resting against Will’s cheek. After unbuckling the clasps, he eases the shoe off her foot, cupping her heel in his hand. Alana looks into his eyes, almost black in the grey, dimly-lit room, and he lets her slide the foot out of his hand, and tuck it underneath herself. Instead, he bends his head to remove the other shoe. She touches his hair briefly, as if in benediction. But for the most part, she exists in stillness.

More dissociation, her brain scolds. Oh, shut up, she says but not before it calls up memories of her undergraduate college years, wading through existentialism with a girlfriend. Bad faith, the echo lectured, is denying your freedom by choosing to neither act, nor react, but only think of the self as an object to be acted upon. Alana is marble, but it remains to be seen whether she will become something rough and wild under Will’s abstract and passionate affections or will she be carved into something beautiful and lonely, under Hannibal’s knife? If it is bad faith to want to see what someone else would make of you, the different dark and twisting roads offered in life - to taste everything - then she will act in bad faith.

Prep the material, then. Standing on stockinged feet, she peels off the dress, and flings it to hit the wall with a wet slap. Her skin underneath is cool and pale, and pebbled with gooseflesh. She stands in bra and panties and stocking feet, defiant, head lifted - in pride, yes and to avoid looking either of them in the eye. Hannibal’s amusement glows like a hearth fire at her feet, and Will stops humming.

She won’t look, she won’t say who did what but it’s impossible to avoid knowing. Hannibal’s deft touch on her garter belt, rolling down the stockings, while Will slides the bra straps from her shoulders. They meet in the middle, fingers touching over the round softness of her bare belly, a band of fire enclosing her. Though the air in the room is warm, she feels a phantom chill as she steps out of her underwear, exposed. Then Will is kissing her, pressing her back towards the bed, and she tugs his shirt off as they go. His mouth wanders, feverish and desperate, from her mouth to her nipples and back again. His chest is slick with sweat under her hands, which glide over him.

Hannibal’s hands are on the inside of her thighs, lightly, before he cups her ass in one long fingered hand, lifting her slightly off the bed as he slides two fingers inside her. The penetration is so swift, so unexpected and all the more arousing for its suddenness, that Alana jerks upwards, gasping into Will’s mouth. Will writhes out of his pants, and then he’s fully naked beside her, pressing his erect cock against her thigh. He burns so hot she feels he must be leaving handprints wherever he touches her. Hannibal has begun to caress her clit with his thumb, and she has to close her eyes and retreat from it all, to slow herself down. Her mind is breaking apart trying to keep the psychologist from the friend, the lover from the psychologist, and all of them away from the incredible sensation building just beneath her navel.

Will rolls her again, a mimic of the earlier move, onto his lap, and Hannibal’s fingers slide out of her leaving her empty and disoriented. Will snugs her against him, his cock sliding between her legs, slick from its contact with her, while Hannibal rolls down the sleeves of his shirt, unbuttoning it and drawing it off, watching them. When he’s barefoot and bare chested, wearing nothing but his black suit pants, he comes to them, leaning over them both, close enough that Alana can smell his subtle cologne, and draws a condom from the bedside table.

Will laughs, a rumble against Alana’s back. “Is there anything you aren’t prepared for, Hannibal?” His voice is rusty, as if from disuse, or screaming.

Hannibal’s face is set and serious as he tears the packet open. “I haven’t been caught unawares in a long time, it’s true.” His knuckles brush against Alana’s sensitive clit as he grasps Will, and they’re both breathing heavily in unison while Hannibal rolls the condom on. Alana doesn’t wait, but slides herself onto Will’s cock before Hannibal can draw his hand away, and pins him there. His tongue darts out, leaving a shine on his lips and the three wait, still as a tableau of art.

Will breaks first and holds Alana’s hips as he thrusts into her. There’s no rhythm or pattern, and she responds to the erratic tempo with more enthusiasm than she expected. It’s completely unlike the stately dance that fucking Hannibal can be - restrained passion that you yearn and yearn to touch, but propriety rules and to cross the boundary is death. Will is running wild through the brush, leaping unexpected fallen trees, and skidding over wet rocks. Hannibal kneels in front of Alana, shaping her face, her arms, her breasts with his hands and mouth, and she’s pinned between them, a forest floor with the Sistine chapel frescos soaring over the treetops. The image is so beautiful, the yearning so strong to be there, her breath catches in her throat before she realizes she is.

Alana looks down and its the sight of Will’s fingers, one hand spread protectively over her belly, and the other twining through the curly hair between her legs to reach her clit that sparks the first electric spasms. They ripple through her, a rock thrown into a still pond, and she’s sober as a priest, and present and oh my god, they are both here, they are both fucking her. The thought sparks a new wave of orgasms and Will’s fingers dig hot into her belly as he groans and comes too. Hannibal’s mouth is wet and pink, as wet and pink as her nipples, when he pauses in stroking the fine skin between her breasts to look up at them. Will, unable to bear the gaze, falls backwards onto the bed, one arm thrown over his face.

The two of them stare at each other, as Hannibal’s hands run lower over the swell of her hips, and past them, to brush the sides of Will’s ass. His hips move, involuntarily, and still inside Alana, his erection ceases it’s slow subside and comes alert, rock hard. Untouched, Alana’s nipples harden and tingle, and she feels like an animal trapped between a cliff and a forest fire, the salvation of a river a distant dream. She slides off Will’s lap, and retrieves the spent condom, which she hands over to Hannibal to dispose of. He does, with a small smile and bow, which should seem mocking, but isn’t. Whatever else he may feel - or not feel, as the case may be - he respects Alana most when she acts without seeking permission. When he returns from the washroom, she’s on her knees, running her hands over Will’s hips and thighs before taking his cock into her mouth.

Small muscles are twitching in his ass and legs, and underneath the crook of his arm, his mouth is moving. She can’t be sure, but she thinks it might be a prayer of some kind. He props himself up on trembling arms to look at her as Hannibal approaches.

“Move back, if you please, Will, Alana,” he says, cordial as you like, while retrieving another condom and putting it on. Alana pauses in her attentions to clamber onto the bed over Will, her breasts brushing his chest as she moves. She’s shoved a few of the pillows together against the wall for him to lean against, and Will knows when he’s beat. He flops back, heedless of nearly knocking his head against the bedpost, when Alana runs her tongue down his stomach and resumes her attentions. Hannibal runs a finger down her spine and eases into her, smooth as silk. He begins, as she knew he would, slow and strong. He’s never fucked her from behind before, but Hannibal knows the shape of things - food, music, people - and his fingers find her clit, and begin to rub it in small circles.

Alana gasps, pausing, and Will opens his eyes. “Don’t bite too hard,” he jokes, but his voice is weak and soft, and he’s looking past her to Hannibal. The room is quiet but for Will muttering pleas to himself, and the sound of her breathing within the curtain of her dark hair. Underneath her palms, the muscles of Will’s ass tighten suddenly, and she moves a hand to continue stroking him, faster and harder. Hannibal groans, as loud as a scream in the nearly silent room, and thrust into her, hard, as he comes, pushing her forward onto Will. At the same moment, Will grabs the blankets under his hands, and comes too, semen pooling hot between his belly and her breasts. They all three lie atop one another, panting, and Alana’s own growing orgasm ebbs away at the realization they were fucking each other, proxy her.

Dissociation is not seeing what you don’t want to see, she thought, her cheek pressed to Will’s sweaty chest. He puts an arm around her shoulders, driving away some of the sudden chill. All she wants to do is sleep. She must, for a bit, for when she opens her eyes again, the room is darker, the night heavier. Will’s arm still lies over her but with none of the tonelessness of sleep.

“Where’s Hannibal?” she asks him, half-asleep, before she can stop herself. She can’t stop herself from seeing the hurt in Will’s eyes at the question. Is it because she asked? Or because Hannibal left without waking him? Alana realizes she doesn’t want to know the answer.

“Never mind. I want a shower. Join me?” And he does, taking her hand, and all is washed clean away down the drain.

 


End file.
